


Ghosts of Guilt and Grief

by Khentkawes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khentkawes/pseuds/Khentkawes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It wasn’t supposed to end like this, he thought, staring at his bloodstained hand as he grasped Marsac’s side. This was supposed to be the chance to finally, finally learn the truth – to make things right. But instead of putting ghosts to rest, he now held another ghost growing ever colder in his arms.”</p><p>Episode tag for “The Good Soldier.” They return to the garrison to find Marsac dead, Treville barking orders, and Aramis not saying a word. At the end of the day, they’re all a little bit haunted by guilt and regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, this was my first Musketeers fic, written a few months back. The premise is hardly new, but several things bothered me about The Good Soldier: mostly Athos and Porthos, whose blind faith in Tréville seemed incredibly naïve for career soldiers. Not to mention Tréville, who claims not to realize what the cardinal was asking. I don’t believe that any of them are this naïve. So I wrote this to deal with my frustrations (and to find a way for Aramis to work through his grief in a way that feels in-character to me). Cue one angsty, stupidly long episode tag for “The Good Soldier” (will be posted in two chapters because it really is that long).

With Marsac’s weight braced in his arms, Aramis was only vaguely aware of several musketeers barging through the doorway, staring in what must be shock and confusion. Aramis couldn’t bring himself to react or even look up. Instead he knelt, staring into the face of a dead friend.

He heard Tréville shout for them to clear out, barking orders as he took control.

Aramis envied him somewhat. Control seemed to be the one thing that continuously eluded him, events spinning ever more wildly out of his grasp despite his best laid plans.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this, he thought, staring at his bloodstained hand as he grasped Marsac’s side. This was supposed to be the chance to finally, finally learn the truth – to make things right. But instead of putting ghosts to rest, he now held another ghost growing ever colder in his arms.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him away from the cold, drawing his eyes away from Marsac. And there was Tréville’s solid gaze staring back at him. Aramis didn’t want to read the sympathy in his expression, nor the gratitude. He deserved neither.

 

* * *

 

When Athos returned to the garrison, the courtyards was in chaos – tightly controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

To civilian eyes, everything would appear to be fine. Men were patrolling the grounds or milling about. A group of musketeers was standing at the far side of the courtyard, leaning against the wall, apparently idle. A cart had been brought in and a few men bustled about it as though preparing a journey, harnessing a horse and spreading out a length of cloth in the back of the cart. It could have been an ordinary day at the garrison.

Except to Athos, it was painfully obvious that something was wrong. The cart was empty, awaiting some type of cargo. The men leaning against the far wall shifted nervously, their agitation faintly visible in the tension of shoulders and the way their eyes darted restlessly about. And the men who had appeared, at first glance, to be pacing casually about the grounds actually seemed vaguely frantic, searching the grounds as if securing the garrison from possible attack.

But what concerned Athos the most was not what the men did or said or the way they looked. It was the way every single musketeer seemed to be turned towards the armory as if expecting something, while no one dared venture near the door. The tension in the air and the faint buzz of anxiety beneath the thrum of normal activity put Athos on full alert.

“You get the duchess safely back to the palace then?” Porthos asked, coming up behind Athos with d’Artagnan at his side.

Athos nodded, not taking his eyes off the courtyard in front of him. “And in good time. The duke returned with the cardinal shortly after we arrived. They intend to meet with the king and finalize the details of the treaty.”

Porthos stopped at Athos’s side, stiffening as he observed the scene before them. Porthos was far more perceptive than most people gave him credit for, and it took no more than a moment for him to realize something was wrong.

D’Artagnan, on the other hand, was not so well attuned to the normal rhythm of the garrison and was still distracted by the afternoon’s excitement. “We straightened out everything at the prison,” he reported, turning to face Athos. “Cluzet has been moved to a new cell and his guard doubled. Hopefully that will keep prying eyes away from him, at least until the duke has gone.” Athos nodded again, distractedly, and d’Artagnan followed his gaze, confused as he began to detect that something was off.

“Any idea what’s been going on here while we were gone?” Porthos asked.

“None.” Athos took two steps forward, quickly snagging the arm of the nearest musketeer. “Albert, what has happened?”

“We’re not entirely certain. Word is that an intruder was discovered in the garrison and shots were fired in the armory.”

“What?” Porthos demanded, straightening as he scanned the courtyard, instantly on alert.

“How many shots?”

The young musketeer shrugged. “Three, maybe?” Albert gestured to the musketeers hovering near the armory door. “The captain ordered everyone away from the armory and gave orders for a cart to be brought before sending some of the others to search the perimeter.”

“Where’s this intruder now?” Porthos asked.

Albert never had a chance to answer as the sound of Tréville’s voice drew everyone’s attention toward the armory doorway, the captain’s orders echoing across the tense courtyard. He strode through the doorway, gesturing for a pair of musketeers to go inside as he gave directions. They obeyed, reappearing a few moments later carrying an awkward shape wrapped in linen between them. It was a sight that answered many questions, but raised one more.

Athos dismissed Albert with a gesture and a word of quiet thanks. They all watched as men loaded the covered corpse into the back of the cart. Tréville followed, issuing orders to the driver.

Predictably, it was Porthos who spoke up.

“Where’s Aramis?”

Athos shook his head mutely.

“I haven’t seen him since this morning,” d’Artagnan said, voice little more than a whisper. “But Marsac should still be tied up back at my room. He couldn’t have escaped. I made sure of it.”

Although he didn’t doubt d’Artagnan’s word (or his knot-tying skills), Athos knew better than to underestimate a desperate man. And Marsac was desperate – desperate and tormented with regret, which was even worse. Even Athos would admit that Marsac was both capable and resourceful. He had needed to be to survive as he had these past five years. And by now Marsac must have realized that they would never trust him, never let him complete his self-appointed quest for revenge. Every hour he spent under house arrest at Bonacieux’s would only drive him deeper into his desperation, and coupled with his own obsession, that made him a dangerous man.

So despite d’Artagnan’s insistence, Athos suspected that whatever was going on here led straight back to Marsac.

“Well, then somethin’s not right,” Porthos muttered.

“I agree.” Athos headed straight towards the captain to find out exactly what had gone wrong. He heard his friends’ footsteps following him. As he drew near, he cleared his throat to attract Tréville’s attention. “Captain.”

Tréville looked over his shoulder, assessing all three of them. Then he ordered the driver to leave immediately and turned his full attention to his best men.

“And where exactly have you lot been?” he asked, tone sharper than Athos had expected.

“Sir,” Porthos began, “has something….” The question never fully left his lips.

“I asked a question solider. I expect a report.”

Athos straightened, answering with the same stiff formality. “I have just returned from the palace where the Duke of Savoy is preparing to finalize the treaty. Prior to that, we were at a certain prison, preforming a service for the Duchess of Savoy – and incidentally for the cardinal.” Tréville’s eyes widened and Athos suppressed a smug grin. He’d tipped his hand with that one, but he’d also made his point: they knew far more than Tréville had realized.

“I suspect I’ll need to sit down for the rest of that story.” The captain rubbed his temple with one hand, suddenly looking weary rather than angry. Athos took note of the bruises forming along his cheekbone and the abrasion beneath his eye.

Clearly they were not the only ones with a story to tell.

“Sir,” Porthos began again. “They said there was an intruder…that shots were fired.” Porthos gestured vaguely in the direction where the cart had rolled off on its ominous journey and the unspoken question hung in the air.

Tréville nodded. “Yes. It was Marsac. But I suspect you three already know something about that.” The edge to his voice left no doubt as to how he felt about the secrets they had clearly been keeping. “I’ve ordered his body to be taken away so we can clear up this mess.” Tréville gestured vaguely behind him.

Athos hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until that moment. It was Marsac. Marsac was dead. Though he knew it was the most likely explanation, there had been a small part of him that had wondered if Aramis…. He glanced at Porthos and saw relief in his eyes. Clearly Athos hadn’t been the only one to wonder.

“But I swear, he was tied up when I left him,” d’Artagnan said. So much for hiding their involvement. Although it was probably much too late for that anyway.

“No doubt he was,” Tréville replied. “But if we’re going to discuss this, we will need to move the discussion indoors.” He pointed to the stairs. “My office. I’ll join you in a moment.”

He didn’t wait to see if they obeyed, merely turned on his heel, ordering all remaining on-lookers to return to their duties. Musketeers scurried out of his way, knowing better than to cross their captain when he had that look on his face.

Athos sighed and made his way to the stairs. He was halfway to Tréville’s office when he heard d’Artagnan’s voice behind him.

“Aramis?” Porthos stiffened and Athos turned to find them both looking back towards the armory. Aramis stood just outside the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He gripped his hat tightly, running the other hand through his hair. Even from here, Athos could see him take a few deep breaths as though to steady himself.

Tréville walked to Aramis’s side and spoke to him quietly. Aramis kept his eyes on the ground, but nodded in response and Tréville reached out to grip his shoulder briefly before he headed to the stairs. Aramis followed him, head down, shoulders bent, trailing dutifully behind.

“Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” the captain ordered, and Athos led the way up the remaining stairs to Tréville’s office, each musketeer filing quietly inside.

Tréville shut the door behind him, moving swiftly to the desk and pulling out a spare chair. “Sit,” he said, the order clearly directed at Aramis who complied without a word. Athos didn’t miss the way Aramis avoided looking anyone in the eye, his gaze darting around the office before it settled on Tréville’s desk. He looked haggard and it occurred to Athos that he had probably slept poorly since Marsac’s return. He also seemed to have acquired a darkening bruise around his left eye.

“Now, gentlemen. I’d like the rest of your story.”

Athos and Porthos exchanged glances. Porthos shrugged, so Athos took that as cue to begin. They told him everything, beginning with what they had overheard while guarding the duke and what they knew about Cluzet. D’Artagnan related the duchess’s sudden arrival at the garrison and how they’d found Cluzet’s cell.

As they made their report, Tréville took out a bottle of what appeared to be quite fine brandy (if Athos was any judge) and poured a glass, handing it to Aramis who accepted it without comment. Tréville poured a second glass for himself and leaned back against his desk to listen.

“And the cardinal knows your role in this?” Tréville asked.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan said. “I replaced Cluzet’s guard. He saw me.”

“Well, that should keep him off our backs for the moment, then.”

Aramis downed the rest of his brandy with a grimace, slamming the empty glass down onto Tréville’s desk. Porthos and d’Artagnan glanced at him in concern, but no one said a word.

“So,” Porthos said, “the duchess is still safe from suspicion. And the treaty will be signed by the end of the day.”

“After the duke’s humiliation at the prison, it is in his best interest to concede to the treaty quickly and gracefully,” Athos added.

“Yes.” Tréville nodded. “The sooner this matter is ended, the better it will be for all involved.”

“And matters here at the garrison?” d’Artagnan asked. Athos worked to suppress a wry grin. You had to admire the boy’s tenacity, his brash and direct manner. Or was it just that he had not yet learned when it was prudent to remain silent?

Tréville didn’t speak for several moments, surveying each of his men silently.

“Based on your behavior yesterday, I assume that you all knew of Marsac’s presence in Paris. I will also assume that he is the one who led you to believe that the duke was responsible for the troop of musketeers who were killed five years ago.”

Tréville’s gaze rested on Aramis, who still avoided eye contact, eyes fixed on his hands gripped tightly in his lap.

“I will excuse your dereliction of duty in not reporting his presence to me immediately,” Tréville continued. “However, I cannot accept distrust from the men under my command.”

“As always, you have our complete loyalty,” Athos said firmly. “That has never changed.”

“We meant only to investigate, to clear your name,” Porthos said. The rationalization rang hollow as Porthos grimaced at his own words, seemingly looking for an explanation that wouldn’t cast further blame on Aramis. “Obviously Marsac was lying all along,” he said more firmly.

Athos didn’t think the others saw Aramis tense or noticed the way Tréville’s eyes darkened.

“Marsac came to the garrison for answers, didn’t he?” Athos asked.

“Yes.” Tréville’s tone was clipped, stiff and bitter.

“No.” Aramis’s voice startled them all. He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, still meeting no one’s gaze. “He came looking for vengeance.” Aramis let out a shaky breath and then, finally, raised his head, looking each of his friends in the eye. “He was wrong.”

It took a long moment for those words to sink in. Slowly, Porthos and d’Artagnan seemed to relax, both visibly relieved.

Athos was not so easily convinced, not with the forced edge in Aramis’s voice and the way the captain’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Aramis. After a moment, Aramis nodded almost imperceptibly, and Trévile straightened.

“I was in the armory,” Tréville said simply. “I heard someone enter and turned to find Marsac, demanding answers and holding a gun to my head.”

“I had to shoot him,” Aramis said softly. “I had tried to stop him, to convince him to leave Paris. I told him that he need not throw his life away.” Aramis looked up, meeting first Athos’s eyes, then Porthos’s. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“You acted with honor, Aramis,” Tréville assured him. “There was nothing more you could do.”

A knock at the office door startled everyone.

“Yes,” Tréville called.

A messenger from the palace entered, informing the captain that he was to meet with His Majesty and the cardinal within the hour and that the duke and duchess would be taking their leave of Paris in the morning. Tréville acknowledged the implied orders and dismissed him.

“I expect the four of you to report for duty at the palace tomorrow morning. You will stand guard and observe the duke’s safe departure. No one will have cause to suspect that you four have any connection to the duke’s would-be assassin. You will present the picture of perfect duty and decorum. Is that perfectly understood?”

“Of course,” Athos said.

Tréville waited, receiving a muttered acknowledgement from Porthos, a crisp “yes, sir” from d’Artagnan, and – when Tréville’s gaze made it clear that Aramis was not exempt from this order – a resigned nod from Aramis who stood and took his place beside the others.

It wasn’t clear if Tréville’s order was meant as a punishment or a simple attempt to reestablish a sense of normality. But when the captain dismissed them, Aramis wasted no time, stalking purposefully toward the stairs. With a quick glance, Porthos followed with the others close behind him.

“Athos,” Tréville stopped him. “A word.”

Nodding to d’Artagnan and Porthos as they rushed after Aramis, Athos turned back to the captain.

Once alone behind closed doors, staring at one another steadily, the silence seemed to speak volumes.

“Well, out with it,” Tréville said.

“Out with what?”

Tréville shook his head. “Yesterday, you said you had questions. You said you came for the truth. Don’t you want to know?”

“No.” Tréville raised an eyebrow, seemingly unsatisfied with the response. “It was Aramis who needed answers.”

“But you know,” Tréville said. It was somewhere between an accusation and a confession. “I saw it in your eyes yesterday. Porthos might be willing to pretend that it was all a lie. He might even convince himself of that. And Aramis will let him. But yesterday you knew as clearly as Aramis did. And yet you did nothing. You were content to let it go. I want to know why.”

It was true. Athos had known. Confession or not, Tréville’s reaction yesterday was all the proof they had needed. Tréville’s guilt, his fear at having been discovered, had been genuine. Athos might not know all the facts, but he knew that Tréville wasn’t entirely innocent in this matter.

But then, they were soldiers. They rarely had the luxury of innocence.

“Whatever happened is in the past,” Athos said. “And I am sure that your orders were intended to protect the interests of France. I may not know the particulars, but I do know that you are an honorable man and a fine officer whom I trust with my life. That is all that matters.”

“No. It isn’t. Not in a world where even honorable men may sink to dishonorable means to accomplish their goals.” The captain turned away, pacing behind his desk for a moment in agitation before he continued. “I understand that trust is earned and I like to think I have earned the trust of every man under my command. Athos, you and Porthos have served under my command for over five years now. You have seen my loyalty to both the king and to each and every soldier in this regiment.”

“As has Aramis.”

“Yes. But don’t forget, Aramis has been a solider longer than either you or Porthos. He was a soldier before the regiment was even founded. While you and Porthos know only the Musketeers and my command, Aramis has served in other regiments, under other commanders. He isn’t naïve enough to assume that every officer has the best interests of his men at heart. He’s seen too much to have the luxury of blind faith. Nor do I want blind faith from every man under my command.”

“I do not understand.”

“Willful ignorance doesn’t suit you, Athos. You know as well as I the political entanglements of court. As much as we’d like to deny it, this is not a black and white world in which we live. But you were willing to turn a blind eye to that, in spite of Marsac’s evidence.”

Athos shook his head, beginning to see that this was a dressing down for an offense he didn’t think he had committed. “I allowed Aramis to investigate. We may not have agreed, but we helped him hide Marsac, listened to his claims, supported Aramis when he wished to confront you. You call that turning a blind eye?”

“I have plenty men who will follow my orders without question,” Tréville said, blatantly ignoring Athos’s question. “I do not need to count you among that number. I need to know you will be honest with me. Even when honesty involves facing uncomfortable truths.”

“I have never been less than honest with you. Certainly not today,” Athos said. “But you are correct: part of me did not wish to know the truth. I warned Aramis that the answers he sought might not bring the resolution he desired.”

Tréville nodded sadly. “In fact, they only made matters worse for him.” He sighed. “Aramis crossed a line today and by rights I should have him court martialed. But I won’t punish a man for loyalty to his comrades and his own conscience – certainly not when he has behaved with more honor than any of us.”

Athos relaxed slightly at that. Tréville might disapprove of their actions these past few days, for a variety of reasons apparently, but he would still support his men. That was, after all, the one truth that Athos had known he could count on in this whole mess.

“I give you three a lot of freedom,” the captain continued, “perhaps more than I should. I know that you occasionally bend the rules, that you twist and re-interpret orders to make them say what you want them to. The truth is that I rely on that ability because it means that I can count on you to do the right thing, even if I cannot.” Tréville sighed, rubbing a hand across his tired face. “Perhaps that’s unfair of me. A commander shouldn’t expect more of his men that he can himself deliver.” When Tréville raised his eyes, they were haunted, ice blue ringed in the same shadows that Athos knew Aramis was still fighting.

“I followed my orders when I betrayed those men to the Duke of Savoy. I did as the cardinal asked, and I may not have known his full plan, but I knew the danger I was sending those men into. I knew how it would likely end.” He sighed heavily, burdened by the guilt that clearly accompanied those orders. His voice turned rough as he continued. “And if I receive orders like those again, I will have no choice but to follow them.”

Athos swallowed, no words adequate in the face of the harsh truth that they both recognized as inescapable. The captain stared back, as if expecting a response Athos couldn’t give.

“And if that day comes,” Tréville continued, “I don’t want you to turn a blind eye. I want you to protect your men. I know you will do your duty, that you will protect the country and the crown with your last breath. But you are not subject to the whim of court politics. So I’m ordering you to protect your fellow musketeers. Whatever the cost. Understood?”

Athos straightened to attention, nodding solemnly. “Perfectly.” And he did. Tréville wasn’t angry at Aramis for questioning his leadership, at Porthos for not arresting Marsac, or at Athos for failing to investigate thoroughly.

He was angry at himself for a decision that he knew he would make again. And he was all but begging Athos to prevent him from ever making such a decision in the future.

Wearily, Tréville sank into his chair, nodding his gratitude. “Thank you.” For a long moment, neither spoke, merely soaking in the unspoken understanding that had passed between them.

“Now,” Tréville broke the silence, “I must soon report to the palace. You are dismissed until morning. Make sure that you and your men are ready for the duke’s departure.”

Athos nodded silently. Needing no further dismissal, he turned stiffly towards the exit. His hand was on the door when Tréville’s voice stopped him.

“And Athos,” Tréville added. “Keep a close eye on Aramis, while you’re at it. I suspect he’ll need it.”

 

* * *

 

Aramis was a quick, sneaky bastard when he wanted to be. If he chose to, he could lose himself so thoroughly in the warrens of Paris that they would never be able to find him.

No one knew this better than Porthos, and it was the only thought that crossed his mind as he chased after his friend. He practically leapt down the stairs, scanning the area and narrowing in on his target before his feet hit the dirt.

They caught up to him at just as he turned out of the courtyard.

“Aramis.” Porthos reached for his arm to stop him, to draw him back. Aramis ducked away from his hand like a skittish colt.

“Don’t,” Aramis said, voice brittle. He must have seen the hurt and concern mixed in Porthos’s eyes because his tone softened. “I’m fine, my friend. I just… I need to clear my head is all. But I’m fine.” Aramis settled his hat back on his head, attempting a show of normality. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Porthos watched him leave the garrison, stalking off through the streets of Paris, and he kept watching until Aramis turned the corner out of sight.

“Should we follow him?” d’Artagnan asked.

Letting out a sigh, Porthos shook his head. “Nah. No use. He’ll come around when he’s ready.”

Porthos hoped it was true. He hoped this wasn’t a tactical error, knowing that if Aramis truly wanted to be left alone, Porthos had just lost his one chance to speak with him.

But his words worked to reassure d’Artagnan, and he sent the lad home to explain to Constance that her temporary lodger was no longer a concern. As d’Artagnan left, Porthos turned to wait for Athos, planning to collect him and head off to the nearest tavern. Porthos needed a drink. Or three. And then, perhaps, once they’d given Aramis time to collect himself, the two of them would manage to track down their friend and make sure he was looked after. Because God knew that Aramis needed _someone_ to look after him.

Athos was more than amenable to the plan when he eventually emerged from Tréville’s office. So after a few hours and more than a few drinks at the tavern, they headed for Aramis’s lodgings. But when they got there, the windows were dark. No candles burned and no one responded to their knocking, even when Porthos called loudly, threatening to break down the door if Aramis refused to open it.

“Porthos, stop. He’s obviously not here,” Athos said.

Porthos nodded and looked back into the street. It was dark now, late enough that most respectable people were home, and the unrespectable ones were mostly holed up in any available tavern, toasting the night away.

“So where is he, then?”

“If he wanted to be found, he’d be here. Let him be for now, and if he doesn’t turn up in the morning, then we’ll search until we find him.”

“Yeah. I suppose we’ll have to.” Porthos frowned. “I just can’t help feeling that leavin’ him alone is partially what caused this mess.”

Athos did not disagree.

 

* * *

 

Aramis never made it home. In truth, he’d never intended to go home. His feet had found their way to the church door, slipping in silently and choosing a pew where he knelt, settling in until he was merely part of the silence.

And there he stayed, kneeling, lips moving silently, fingers tightening around the rosary clutched between his hands. He lost count of the prayers he’d said, starting out with one for each musketeer who had died that day in Savoy. Twenty prayers, whispered over and over.

He prayed for Marsac too. Prayed his soul would find rest. That he’d finally be at peace. Fervently beseeching God to show mercy on the wounded soul of a poor broken soldier, a man ruined by the cost of duty.

And eventually, much later, he prayed for himself, for the small part of him that couldn’t yet forgive Tréville, for the larger part that wanted to kill the duke, the part that planned how to do it, that imagined holding the musket as he took the shot. He could do it too. Unlike Marsac, he wouldn’t miss.

But he prayed for God’s forgiveness. He prayed for the strength to surrender his desire for vengeance to God. He prayed for absolution for Marsac’s death.

And he prayed for peace – blessed, elusive peace – from the ghosts of Savoy that had never quite left him all these years.

When words failed him, he started his prayers all over again, drawing comfort in the repetition, the ritual that would wash away his guilt.

He didn’t know when the prayers eventually stopped as he slowly drifted into a hazy sleep, his head resting on the pew in front of him.

He awoke early the next morning to a hand shaking him by the shoulder and through bleary eyes he saw the face of a comforting priest kneeling down to pray beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, they didn’t have to seek out Aramis. Just as Porthos was about to demand that they start a search, Aramis strolled through the garrison’s gates, dressed in full uniform with one hand resting on his sword hilt.

His quiet good morning greeting was tempered by a wan smile, and no one failed to notice the shadows under his eyes or the fatigue clearly written on his face.

D’Artagnan, who was seated at the table, stopped in the middle of his breakfast as he glanced from one man to the other, clearly waiting for someone to reply. The resounding silence quickly became uncomfortable.

While Porthos had spent all morning worrying about Aramis, complaining to Athos, and blaming himself for letting Aramis leave the day before, he seemed completely unable to form adequate words in the face Aramis’s actual presence.

And everyone knew words weren’t Athos’s specialty.

Which meant the task of breaking the silence fell to d’Artagnan.

“Have you eaten?” he asked Aramis, gesturing to the remnants of breakfast scattered across the table. “We have a bit of time before we’re expected at the palace.”

Porthos and Athos both stared at him. D’Artagnan merely shrugged. He might not be the most brilliant conversationalist, but at least he was willing to speak up. Besides, he didn’t see how walking on eggshells around Aramis was helping matters any.

Aramis let out a sigh, but nodded as he sat across from d’Artagnan and reached for a piece of bread, chewing slowly. For a moment it seemed almost normal, just a quiet morning as they waited to report for duty. But of course the illusion of normality lasted only until Porthos regained control of his tongue.

“You didn’t go home last night,” he said bluntly.

Swallowing a bite, Aramis turned to look at him. “I take it you had nothing better to do than follow me? You should know better, Porthos. You might not like what you see.”

Clearly it was meant as a joke, a coy reference to Aramis’s usual nighttime escapades. But it fell flat. Perhaps d’Artagnan wasn’t the only one imagining what it would be like to follow Aramis and find him plotting to assassinate a certain duke…or perhaps the captain.

It was absurd, of course, and d’Artagnan dismissed the thought almost immediately.

“What Porthos meant to say is that he’s been worrying himself senseless – so much so that he failed to finish his own breakfast.” Athos’s wry tone seemed to dispel the tension. Aramis actually grinned, weak though it was.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Aramis replied.

It wasn’t quite normality, but it was something at least. D’Artagnan decided to count that as success.

 

* * *

 

The tense breakfast was followed by a silent trip to the palace. Athos led the way with d’Artagnan following closely, while Porthos rode at Aramis’s side, offering silent support. As they dismounted outside the palace, Porthos rested a comforting hand on Aramis’s shoulder, earning him a small smile.

Aramis took a deep breath, steeling himself before turning to the others. “Let’s get this over with.”

Athos nodded, taking a moment to admire Aramis’s steady determination. Aramis never flinched from duty. It was one of the things he admired most about the man – even more so now, when faced with a duty none of them desired: to sit back and merely watch the duke, knowing what they all knew….

“No one is to do anything foolish,” Athos said calmly. “We stay at our posts and no one goes near the duke.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Aramis snapped. “I’m not going to jeopardize the cardinal’s precious treaty.”

Athos raised an eyebrow mildly, resisted the urge to flinch at the bitterness in Aramis’s voice. “I was reminding myself as much as you.”

“Yeah, Athos already tried to thrash the duke once, remember,” Porthos said. “You shoulda seen it. He was out for blood.”

“Weren’t you the one who said you would have sliced the duke’s throat, rather than his shirt?” Athos asked pointedly.

Porthos put on a sheepish look. “Well, yeah. We all know I have less self-control than you do.”

Aramis stared at them both, bewildered.

Athos gave him a small smile, knowing that only those closest to him would see the whisper of affection in his gaze. “You see? You’re not the only one who wishes to see him punished.”

The message was clearly received as Aramis relaxed minutely, defensiveness bleeding away to leave only bitter resignation. “Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Not without exposing the duchess and the cardinal,” d’Artaganan said. “And probably getting ourselves thrown in the bastille for treason.”

There was a long silence, but it was Aramis who finally spoke. “So, we do our duty,” he said, heading towards the palace. “As quickly and painlessly as possible.”

And they did.

They stood guard, said nothing. Aramis stood stonily at attention until it seemed as though he had ceased to breathe. It wasn’t clear whether he heard the duchess’s soft words as she paused before Athos. If Aramis reacted at all, Athos was too distracted with his own thoughts to notice.

The duchess’s words struck an uncomfortable chord. Athos had to marvel at the complexity of it all – how even those bound by affection and loyalty were equally marked by secrecy and betrayal. But those thoughts, too close to his own life, did not bear close scrutiny.

With Savoy’s delegation rapidly leaving the city, the musketeers were free to return to the garrison. If they’d hoped for a quiet moment to themselves, however, it was soon disturbed by Tréville, who had barely returned from the palace himself before he was stopped by a servant delivering news that apparently pertained to them, as Tréville quickly called Aramis over to him.

They watched from a distance as the two spoke quietly.

“What do you think that’s about?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Can’t be more trouble, can it?” Porthos said.

Athos measured Tréville’s expression, his posture, reading the man’s mood. “No, not trouble, per se. More like a recompense.”

“What do you mean?” D’Artagnan frowned.

Before anyone could answer, Aramis turned sharply and left, striding past them with only a brief nod as he departed.

“Should we…” d’Artagnan asked, trailing off as he followed Aramis with his eyes.

“No,” Tréville answered for him, startling d’Artagnan as he realized the captain suddenly stood before them. “Let him go. We’ll be back later. You three have the rest of the afternoon. Make use of it with some target practice, why don’t you.” As Tréville walked towards the gates, Porthos called out to him.

“Captain.” Tréville stopped. “Where’s Aramis going?” Porthos asked.

With a sigh, Tréville replied, “the cemetery.” Then he turned and followed along in Aramis’s wake, stalking off into the scattered rain.

 

* * *

 

He’d been shocked at first, but the surprise was quickly followed by gratitude. Aramis hadn’t been able to find the words to thank the captain for this one small favor, so unobtrusive, but yet so very, very important.

Tréville had directed him to the cemetery where Marsac’s body now lay among his fellow musketeers. It was a place of respect reserved for soldiers and honorable men – men who died defending their king and protecting their comrades. Men like Marsac who had pulled Aramis from the midst of the slaughter.

Why Tréville would allow a deserter and assassin – failed assassin, Marsac’s wry voice echoed in Aramis’s mind – to be buried amongst these men… well, Aramis wasn’t about to question the captain’s motives.

He found the grave quickly, noting the single patch of freshly turned earth. He stood before it, staring sightlessly as he heard Tréville’s footsteps behind him.

The captain gave him a moment alone before stepping up to stand at his side, a quiet presence, seeming content to allow Aramis his silent grief. They stood there together, lost in their individual memories and regrets as the rain worsened, blanketing the cemetery with a dreary shade of gray.

Aramis said another silent prayer for Marsac’s soul, hoping fervently that his friend had found peace, and withdrew the crucifix around his neck to give it a brief kiss.

It was done. All of it. Savoy, Marsac, the massacre, the relentless search for justice… all buried here and committed to God’s care. The finality of it soothed Aramis’s weary soul.

With a deep breath, he finally broke the silence.

“Marsac’s spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five years ago. It just took this long for his body to catch up.” Aramis heard the strength and conviction in his own voice, only just now realizing the full truth of his words. He looked up to meet the captain’s eyes, seeing both sympathy and regret looking back at him. That look would have shocked him just a few days before, but much had changed since then. Suddenly Aramis realized he would say anything to ease the regret he saw staring back at him.

“We’re soldiers, captain,” he said firmly. “We follow our orders no matter where they lead. Even to death.”

Tréville nodded, accepting the words for what they were: absolution. Aramis doubted that it would be enough – for either of them. But when Tréville reached out a hand, Aramis grasped it firmly. The shadows still haunted them both; Aramis could see them in the captain’s eyes and had no doubt that the same dark regrets lurked in his own gaze. But the handshake was an understanding, an agreement, a sort of mutual forgiveness for an event that both men found profoundly painful. This was the first step towards putting it behind them.

Satisfied, Tréville clapped a hand to his shoulder and then turned, leaving Aramis to mourn in peace.

Staring at the grave, Aramis took another deep breath, releasing as much of the regret as he could. He plunged the sword into the ground, with one last wish for Marsac’s peaceful rest, and turned to walk away. As he left behind the fresh grave, gaping like an open wound, Aramis felt a strange sense of emptiness.

He wandered through the cemetery, passing through the ghosts of dead musketeers, and eventually made his way through the streets of Paris.

The rain kept coming, a steady summer rain that soaked into his clothes, leaving him chilled and shaky. Making his way through the streets, he suspected he looked more like a gutter rat than a dignified musketeer. He resisted a bitter laugh as he thought of it. Aramis the elegant Parisian gentleman, the honorable musketeer – reduced to looking like a vagrant. It fit somehow. Beneath his fine manners and his noble uniform, he was only a common solider and an uncommonly poor friend. After all, he was the reason Marsac – one of his oldest friends – now lay in the dank confines of a fresh grave, soaked by rain but drained of life. The thought of it made Aramis feel half-dead himself.

He told himself it was the cold that made him so morbid, though part of his mind told him that it wasn’t truly that cold, even with the rain. But yes, that must be it – the cold, the damp, the stress, the lack of sleep. He’d been here before. He’d been a soldier long enough to know the deadening effects of grief mingled with exhaustion. And now, with his attention shifting back to the present, Aramis could feel the dampness settle into his bones, his head pounding slightly from the weight of sleepless nights.

He should go home, eat, down a glass of wine or two, and head straight to bed – to sleep until the world righted itself again and he could face the thought of returning to the garrison with his normal smile plastered over the guilt and grief.

 

* * *

 

They had watched Tréville leave, stalking off after Aramis like a man in a funeral procession. Once he was gone, they’d attempted to follow the captain’s suggestion of some target practice in the yard.

But their hearts weren’t in it. Eventually they gave up the pretense of training and settled at the table, Athos reaching for the nearest bottle of wine. No one blamed d’Artagnan when he eventually excused himself, saying he had a promise to Constance that had to be kept. The other two dismissed him with a wave, promising to meet up in the morning. They were both poor company, and d’Artagnan was under no obligation to put up with their moping.

Athos refilled his cup and pushed the bottle towards Porthos, who shook his head.

“You think we should go find him?” Porthos asked.

Athos merely shrugged.

Porthos tried again. “I don’t like leavin’ him alone like this. You know how he gets.”

Athos nodded. “True. But perhaps he would rather we left him alone for now.”

“Well, maybe what he wants isn’t what’s best.” Porthos scowled slightly, looking as though he could barely control his frustrated.

Athos nodded mildly. “While I tend to agree with you, Aramis may feel differently, considering we’ve spent the better part of the past few days insisting that he was wrong about Marsac, Savoy, the captain – about everything.” Athos took a drink. “And now, with things as they are… I wouldn’t blame him if he wished to avoid us.”

Porthos frowned. “You think he’s angry at us? For not trusting Marsac?” Athos shrugged again, provoking an irritated grumble from Porthos. “What else could we have done? After everything, you really think we should have done more to help someone like Marsac?”

“No. But all that Marsac has done does not make him wrong. And regardless, it was unfair to dissuade Aramis when he only wished the truth – even an uncomfortable truth.”

Porthos sighed. “We weren’t trying to dissuade him,” he mumbled, but his slumped posture and general air of gloom betrayed his regret. “I just didn’t like seeing him fall in with Marsac again after the coward abandoned him. Marsac was confusing him, making him doubt the captain.”

“But he was right,” Athos said, voice low and steady. Porthos stared back, mouth twisted in discomfort. “Regardless, Aramis is our comrade. Abandoning him now would be unpardonable.”

“So we are going after ‘im?”

Athos stood, straightening with determination. “Of course. Was there ever any doubt?”

Porthos managed a weak chuckle as he stood to follow. “So, where do we start lookin’?”

 

* * *

 

They found him wandering the streets, head down and rain dripping from his cloak and hat. He was so lost inside his own thoughts that he very nearly walked right past them, would have in fact, if Porthos hadn’t grasped him by the arm. Aramis didn’t start or flinch, just looked up wearily – no surprise on his face, just tired resignation.

They led him away then, back through the damp streets of Paris, back to his own lodging house and into his rooms.

For a while, no one spoke. Aramis sunk into a chair on the far side of the room, tipping his head back to rest against the wall.

“You needn’t stay,” he said softly. “I’ll be fine. I just need a good night’s rest.”

Neither Athos nor Porthos moved to leave. Aramis merely sighed, too tired to offer any further protest at their presence.

Finally, when the silence became too much, Porthos spoke.

“I’m sorry, you know. I really am.”

Aramis shrugged. “Why? You’ve done nothing to be sorry for.”

It was Porthos’s turn to shrug. “Dunno really. I guess for all of it. I’m sorry we can’t make things right for you, that we can’t give the duke of Savoy what he really deserves. You know we would if we could.” Aramis nodded dully but seemed uninclined to reply.

It took several long moments of silence before Athos spoke up as well. “I’m sorry that your answers brought you pain.”

Aramis met his eyes briefly, but with a faraway look in his eye. “We’re soldiers,” he said. “Pain is nothing for us to shy away from.” But beneath his steady words, his friends could see the undercurrent of sadness lingered in Aramis’s eyes.

“I’m sorry that Marsac’s dead,” Porthos said. It was enough to snap a reaction out of Aramis, who shot him a sharp look.

“Please. You detested him. Both of you did.”

“A bit,” Porthos conceded mildly. “But he was a musketeer. He deserved better than where life took him.”

“And he was your friend,” Athos added. “While I may have disliked the man, I can still regret his death – both for his own sake and for yours.”

If they noticed the dampness clouding Aramis’s eyes, no one said anything.

“But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Aramis finally said, standing roughly. “No matter what Marsac may have deserved, he was a solider first. Death, pain, hardship… we accept these daily.” Aramis’s irritation drove him to pace the length of the room once before stopping again. “If it’s an unworthy death… well, we do what is expected of us. We follow orders and don’t question if one day those orders may seem like a betrayal because our lives are forfeit to the whims of the crown. That’s the life we chose as soldiers. It’s unavoidable.”

He sank down again, this time leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. Porthos looked helplessly to Athos before moving to Aramis’s side, resting one hand gently on his shoulder.

Athos cleared his throat and both of his companions looked up at him expectantly.

“That may be true,” he said. “But that does not mean we must face it blindly. We do our duty. We protect the king and the honor of the musketeers. But we do so with our eyes open and our brothers at our side. And above all we protect each other. Agreed?”

Aramis nodded. “Yes. Always.”

“Good. Now, if we are to continue this discussion, we need wine.”

Aramis nearly choked on a surprised laugh and waved his hand in the direction of the other room. “I have a few spare bottles in the back of the cupboard. But if you plan to drink me out of house and home…”

“I’ll buy you more tomorrow,” Athos said, wandering off into the other room to retrieve the promised wine and a set of glasses. By the time he returned, Porthos and Aramis had settled on the floor, backs propped up against the wall. And Porthos was chuckling. Even more surprising was the genuine grin that was working its way across Aramis’s face.

“The two of you got into a fight?” Porthos asked lightly. “The day you met?”

The grin could no longer be denied as Aramis basked in the memory. “Oh, yes. I tried to apologize, told him it was an accident. But Marsac insisted I had run into him on purpose as some sort of personal insult. It very nearly escalated into a duel.”

“I imagine that went over well with the captain,” Porthos said. “His own men involved in back alley brawling…with each other no less.”

“What makes you think the captain ever found out?” Aramis asked with a hint of mischief in his eyes.

Athos settled down on the floor across from them, neatly arranging the two bottles he’d collected between them. “Now this sounds like a story I’ve not heard before.” He filled the first glass and passed it to Aramis.

“Really? I can’t believe I never mentioned it.”

But Athos and Porthos both knew why they’d never heard this particular tale. After Savoy, Marsac’s name has come to feel like a curse. For the first few months, Marsac’s desertion had plagued Aramis’s conscience. His every memory of Marsac now seemed tied up in guilt and grief and worry, occasionally tinged with anger when he could no longer excuse Marsac’s abandonment. No one risked upsetting Aramis by even the smallest mention of Marsac, and eventually Aramis simply stopped talking about him. Soon, it was as if Marsac had never existed.

“Tell us now?” Porthos asked, the question gentle enough to allow Aramis to refuse if the request was still too difficult.

But perhaps this was exactly what Aramis needed because, after a few sips of wine and a deep breath, Aramis told them all about the day he’d first met Marsac.

By the time d’Artagnan arrived later that evening, carrying dinner from Constance as a token of her forgiveness, Aramis had begun regaling them with stories of other soldiers who’d died in Savoy, men who Athos had never really known because he’d been too new to the regiment.

Aramis waved d’Artagnan inside, Porthos moved to the hearth to start a fire as the evening chill began to set in, and Athos gathered another glass. They laid out the food and resituated themselves in a loose circle, warm and content, with both food and drink to last them through the night. As they ate, Aramis began again.

“And then there was the time that Marsac and I were captured by bandits. Well, I say bandits, but it actually turned out to be a group of mercenaries who were patrolling Spanish trade routes along the border. We’d taken a wrong turn and inadvertently crossed the border because Marsac….”

 

* * *

 

They talked long into the night. Well, really, Aramis talked. The others listened. But he found himself telling these stories, these memories, with the same fervency with which he had spent the previous night praying. And like those prayers, he repeated these stories until they were etched in his mind, covering over the grief with memories of better times.

Porthos joined in from time to time, adding his own memories to the mix, and even Athos added his own commentary a time or two. But mostly they listened and laughed, gentle teasing flowing along with glasses of wine. And if Aramis trailed off strangely when an occasional tear came to his eye, they said nothing about it. Athos would merely pour some more wine, and Porthos would press his shoulder against Aramis, adding an extra measure of support, as Porthos took over with another story, keeping the warmth of camaraderie burning.

It was, perhaps, the best medicine that Aramis could have asked for.

It was late into the night when they finally settled in to sleep, scattered throughout Aramis’s room and wrapped in spare blankets. As the sound of the dying fire smoothed him into a contented sleep, Aramis had no doubt that whatever orders and battles came for them the next day, at least they would face them together.


End file.
